


A Captain's Responsibility

by thesecretdetectivecollection



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-01
Updated: 2016-12-01
Packaged: 2018-09-03 14:45:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8717950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesecretdetectivecollection/pseuds/thesecretdetectivecollection
Summary: Liverpool-Manchester United has never been a gentle fixture, and it wasn't this time, either. Fellaini threw an elbow in his typical way, and Emre caught it right in the face. It turns out he might be concussed, and Jordan makes him stay the night so he can look after him.





	1. Chapter 1

Someone—it no longer mattered who—was supposed to be marking Fellaini, and instead had been out of position trying to create something for the attack. When the counterattack had broken out, he’d been too far out to get back. Emre’d seen the hole in the defense, and he’d moved to mark the tall Belgian, and all he’d gotten for his troubles was a fucking elbow to the face. 

He was slow to rise, but did so anyway as the final whistle blew, and began walking slowly to the tunnel.

 He had been quiet in the dressing room. Jordan had been too busy celebrating with the boys—beating United two-nil was a great feeling, and he could stand to wait a bit before tempering his excitement and reminding the lads that they were only halfway there, after all.

 It had been Milly who’d pointed it out to him. Of course it had. Older, more level-headed Milly, whose head hadn’t been completely turned upside-down in the euphoria of a win in the _first leg_ of a match. Jordan had noted before (many times) that Milly wore the captaincy like he’d been born for it, breaking up fights, offering encouragement and chastisement and discussing things rationally with referees instead of just shouting. In weaker moments, he wondered if he’d ever be as effortlessly good a captain as Milly was.

Still, he reasoned wryly with himself, it was better than trying to live up to living legend Steven Gerrard, who was so revered that he could recreationally steal candy from babies, and people would line the streets with their kids, holding out Mars Bars.

_(These people included Hendo himself, who would never forget the unwavering support Stevie’d given him when fans and press alike called him a 20 million pound flop, the way he’d put the armband on Hendo’s arm himself in later years, adjusting it and resting a hand on his shoulder and offering quiet, encouraging words. No, it was hard to begrudge a man that adoration when you were one of the people offering it up.)_

…And Milly was still talking.

 _Not a good time to get lost in your own thoughts,_ Hendo thought to himself.

“Sorry, Milly, what was that?”

James heaved a sigh and looked pointedly at Emre, who was leaning against his locker, eyes closed and lips turned up in an attempt at a smile that seemed poised to drop into a grimace.

Jordan met Milly’s eyes and nodded once before rising and walking over to the young German. He placed a friendly hand on his shoulder, and was surprised to see Emre start rather violently.

“What’s going on, Emre?”

“Nothing, I’m fine. Just a little tired from the match,” responded Emre with a smile that slipped abruptly as the color drained from his face, and he broke away with a surprising burst of speed. Jordan followed, because what the hell else could he do, and arrived just in time to see Emre chucking up his guts into a toilet.

James had followed, because of course he had. Adam, surpisingly perceptive, had looked to follow as well, but Milly had looked at him and shaken his head minutely. That was the thing with captain’s instincts—they were slow to develop sometimes, but once you had them, you never really lost them.

“I’ll come get you if we need you,” he promised Adam before he made his way to the toilet, brisk but not running, because Hendo would manage until he got there, and there was no need to panic the boys when they were having such a lovely time celebrating.

Jordan knelt beside Emre, rubbing his back gently and trying not to visibly panic. He was panicking, all right, but he was trying his best not to let Emre see it. What would Stevie do? _(He had a brief vision of Steven bursting into the room, wearing a red cape and a superhero outfit emblazoned with the words Captain Fantastic, saving the day effortlessly and shrugging off all the praise he got for it.)_ What would Carra do? _(Carra had been a good captain, but he hadn’t been so good with other people’s feelings. He probably would have sent up the Stevie Signal for this one. Jordan smirked internally at the thought before sobering up right quick.)_ _What the fuck am_ I _supposed to do?_

Milly entered the room, took one look at Emre hunched over the toilet and another at Jordan’s wide eyes, and took charge of the situation.

“Right, Jordan, you stay here, keep an eye on him. When he’s done, flush the toilet, help him up, get him to the sink so he can rinse his mouth out. I’m going to go get Andrew, be back in a tick.” He paused, taking another look at Jordan.

“Do you need Adam as backup?” he asked.

Jordan weighed the option. He’d certainly feel better with Ads at his back—he always did. But he and Milly were captain and vice-captain, and now that he had a list of instructions and a clear plan, he felt he really ought to be able to take care of things himself. He shook his head and watched something like satisfaction pass rather quickly across James’ countenance in the moment before he left the room. 

Emre finished, and sat heavily with his back leaning against the wall of the cubicle. Pity bloomed strong and fast in Jordan’s chest looking at the German. Normally his face wore a confident grace, with his olive skin and dark features, but now he just looked pale and weary.

“Alright, lad?” Jordan asked, before he could stop himself. _Of course he’s not all right, you fucking idiot,_ he scolded himself. _Just_ look _at the boy._

Emre seemed to be thinking along similar lines, though he refrained from verbalizing those sentiments, seemingly too exhausted to speak. Instead, he just offered Jordan a dry look, and Jordan was suddenly reminded of exactly how _German_ he was. 

“Sorry, of course you’re not alright. Are you done, at least? Ready to stand up?”

Emre looked uncertain, glancing at the toilet once more as if parting from his dearest friend in the world.

“Come on then, let’s try standing, shall we?” Jordan moved gently, flushing the toilet before bending and wrapping Emre’s arm around his shoulder, and his around his waist. Gradually the pair rose. Emre bore most of his own weight, and they slowly but surely made their way to the sink, where Emre ran the cold tap, filled his cupped hand with water, and rinsed out his mouth.

Dr. Andrew Massey came through the door with Milly on his heels. He took one look at Emre and the grin on his face slipped off.

“All right, Emre, let’s get you to the physiotherapy room, and we can sit and talk about this, okay? Figure out what’s going on. Sound good, lad?”

Andrew had this manner about him that just made the lads feel like it was going to be okay, no matter what. Emre looked a little less like death and a little more hopeful.

“Need one of us to come with you, doc?” asked Hendo, tentatively. He’d come this far, and leaving Emre now felt rather like abandoning him, which was not a very captain-y thing to do. Still, Andrew was the doctor here, and he could handle himself, surely. So when he shook his head and led Emre from the room, Milly and Hendo were left alone in the washroom, with the smell of vomit lingering in the air.

“You did good, Jordan,” Milly said, with a tone that was neither condescending nor surprised, just approving. Hendo flushed warm with pride, but didn’t acknowledge the praise.

“We should go out there and make sure Moreno hasn’t convinced Phil and Flanno to set fire to the dressing room or something.”

The image made Milly smile, almost against his will. Moreno wasn’t malevolent by any stretch of the imagination, but he was mischievous, and it wasn’t hard to see it going wrong one day. He nodded. It would be best to nip that sort of thing in the bud, though Adam, Lucas, Skrts, and Mama were all out there keeping the ship afloat. Having more responsible adults in the room never hurt anybody, in James’ personal opinion.

They went out and did their best to celebrate. Jordan noticed Milly talking quietly to Adam for a bit. Lucas came up to him too, to make sure everything was alright.

With his jokes and his easy laughter and his peculiar Brazilian-Scouse accent, it was easy to dismiss Lucas as just another dressing room clown. But he was much more observant than most people thought, and it occurred to Jordan from time to time that he was actually a veteran in the dressing room, that he had worn this badge on his chest longer than anybody else in the side. Sometimes one of the young lads would mention growing up watching Stevie and Carra, and Lucas got a faraway look in his eye, and for that instant his ever-present smile would slip away and he’d look old and weary. Jordan hated seeing him that way. The full impact of Lucas’ years here somehow continued to surprise him in some way, like finding a childhood toy as an adult and remembering it despite its long absence from your life.

“Everything all right, Jordan?” That was the other thing. Lucas always called him Jordan, always, even though the other lads called mostly called him Hendo. _It’s nice_ , he thought. He liked the cadence of Lucas’ voice as it said his name. There was comfort in the accented _Joord_ -an, the elongated   - _oor_ punctuated with a sharp playful - _an_.  

Jurgen entered the room, followed closely by Andrew, and Jordan’s heart dropped. The frown on the boss’ face could only mean that something was wrong with Emre, (considering that they’d beaten United and all of them had been hugged to within an inch of their lives as they’d come off the pitch) and yes, Jordan had known that was a possibility when he’d watched the boy throwing up, but to have a doctor confirm it made it worse somehow, made it real.

He wondered if Emre was going to be okay, and how long it would take. He wondered if it was just a bad hangover, or food poisoning, or pneumonia, or, or some terrible form of _cancer_. _Don’t be ridiculous, Jordan_ , his inner Stevie voice scolded. He wrenched himself away from that line of thought, made a mental note to stop using the internet to look up every minor ache or twinge, and decided that actively seeking information _from a medical professional_ was more productive than waiting for it to be given to him.

Exchanging a look with Milly that he hoped said _hold down the fort while I go see to this,_ Jordan rose and went over to talk to the gaffer.

“How is he?” He asked, nodding at the boss before turning to Andrew.

“I want to send him home overnight and check on him tomorrow. Does he live alone?”

“No, with friends, but they’re away at the moment, I think.”

“I don’t feel comfortable releasing him unless he’s got someone taking care of him.” Andrew responded.

Jurgen began to speak, and Jordan knew that any of the lads would take Emre home and see to him, and maybe Jurgen would too, feeling a little extra fatherly responsibility for his young compatriot, but _he_ was the captain. It was his _job_ to take care of the boys. 

“He can stay with me.” Jurgen looked at him with something like approval, and that cemented the feeling that he was doing the right thing.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jordan and Emre leave Anfield and go back to Jordan’s, where Emre show how good he is with kids.

As Jordan turned to walk away, a hand landed heavy with affection on his shoulder, and he turned back to meet Jürgen’s eyes.

“You are a good captain, Jordan,” he said, with his German accent somehow softening the words. _How does that work, then? German is such a harsh language. Why is it that Germans speaking English round off the words and steal away all the sharpness of them?_

He turned to go again, only for another hand to take his left arm and lead him off to the side, somewhere a little quieter. Andrew looked at him, as though assessing his qualifications as a caretaker. He took his job seriously, after all, and these men weren’t just patients, they were friends now.

“He might have a concussion,” Andrew said bluntly. “We need to rule it out in the next twenty-four hours. He isn’t hungover, we both know he’s a professional. I don’t think it’s food poisoning, though it might be, and I know that he took that nasty elbow to the face from Fellaini just before the final whistle.” He paused here, looking at Jordan again. He didn’t have anything to add to the conversation except a few choice words regarding Fellaini’s parentage, so he remained silent and nodded once to show he understood.

“Okay, so you’re going to need to make sure he eats. Keeping it down is a priority. You have kids, right?” Jordan nodded.

“They ever been sick?” Again, Jordan nodded. “Emre needs basically the same treatment. Don’t worry if he doesn’t finish everything on his plate. If he throws up again, try something like plain pasta, milk, a few pieces of toast with butter. Number one priority is getting something in his stomach so he’s not taking meds on an empty stomach.” Jordan pondered whether he should be taking notes, but figured that he’d be fine, between himself and Becca, and he could just call if things got bad.  

“He shouldn’t be watching TV, or reading, or looking too much at his phone. And you know how much he loves that damn thing, so keep an eye out for him trying to cheat! Okay, last thing. Wake him up every hour. Ask him things he should know the answer to: the year, who the manager is, the score of today’s match, the nationalities of some of the other boys, easy things like that, okay?” 

“Like who the Prime Minister is, or the German Chancellor or whatever?”

“Yeah, that’s the idea. If he wakes up disoriented, tell him where he is and why. Tell him he’s staying the night at yours until we can check him out tomorrow. If he gets irritated the fifth or sixth time you wake him up, that’s a good sign. It means he’s remembering everything, but that doesn’t mean you should stop waking him every hour or so. Keep asking the questions. Keep telling him the same thing. If something goes wrong, you have a question, or he starts getting worse, you call me. If he’s not waking up, or you think it’s bad enough, or I don’t answer, you call 999. Understand?”

“Yes, sir!” Jordan responded, raising a hand to his forehead to offer a casual salute.

“You have my number?” Andrew asked, and he still looked worried, and Jordan wondered if being a doctor was rather like being a parent that way, if you always wondered about your patients as you did about your children.

Again, Jordan nodded, and wondered if anyone had ever sprained their necks from nodding too much.

Emre was lying on his back on the massage table, arm thrown over his eyes to block out the light.

“Alright, Emre?” Jordan asked, voice light.

There was a grunt that showed acknowledgment more than response.

“How about spending the night at mine, lad? Keep your boring old captain company? How does that sound?”

There was a hum this time, and Emre lifted his arm an inch, and peered out from underneath to look at Jordan.

“That’s it, good lad, come on now.” He took hold of Emre’s arm and guided him rather firmly, so he was upright and following before he could even think of struggling. Emre hadn’t been taken care of in awhile though, and his head hurt, so struggling was the last thing on his mind.

Jordan got him back into the dressing room, where the lads were still celebrating, but the euphoria was beginning to die down. He suspected that Milly and Jürgen had probably jointly delivered the “don’t get overexcited, it’s just the first leg,” talk, and someone, Lucas or Ads probably, had led them in a rousing pep talk culminating with Stevie’s immortal words: “We go again!” So the boys were motivated and serious, almost ready to take the drive to Old Trafford right now. Jordan smiled as he packed up his things, and helped Emre with his. While Emre finished up, he pulled Milly aside and gave him an update, because his vice-captain deserved to know. 

“Come on now, lad,” Jordan said again, feeling rather like a parent, as he watched Emre rise and started leading him to his car. He kept a sharp eye out for any sort of unsteadiness in his gait, and waited until he’d put on his seatbelt to start the engine. It’s still cold in Liverpool, even though March is supposed to herald the start of spring, so he turned on the heat, noticing the way Emre relaxed a little bit. He wondered if Germany is warmer or colder than Liverpool, and made a mental note to ask Emre later.

Emre leaned his head against the window and closed his eyes, and Jordan decided to let him have this little respite before they got home and he got set upon by Becca and the girls.

The girls love him. They love anybody who comes by, to be honest, but Emre generally liked kids and made the effort, and the girls seemed to sense that, going by the way they wrapped their small fingers around his and pulled him with surprising force to the living room to play with blocks and dolls. Emre’s sister was older than him, and he had little nieces, so he was well-acquainted with the intricacies of doll etiquette.

He did his best, partially because the girls looked up at him with adoration in their eyes, and partially because somewhere in his battered head is the reminder that their father is his captain, and it would be best not to piss the man off. He owed him, anyway. Not every captain Emre’d served under would volunteer to watch an injured player. Hendo was a good man. The least he could do was play with his kids for a bit.

Soon Becca told them that dinner was ready. As she swept the girls away to wash their hands, she smiled gratefully at Emre, and gestured to a place setting on the table that he assumed was meant for him. It had an adult plate, for one, instead of pink plastic, and there was a glass of water and some ibuprofen next to it. He adored Becca, he decided. He took the pills and sat heavily in his chair with a sigh, waiting for the effects to kick in.

And of course, that was when he noticed his captain, leaning casually up against the counter and watching him. It was quite unnerving to be watched so very intently by someone other than his mother on those rare visits home. His mother would like Jordan, he thought to himself. His mother, who was probably watching the game. His mother, who worried when he didn’t answer the phone on a good day and had just seen him take a hard hit to the face and go down.

“I need to call my parents,” he said to Jordan.

“Okay…” and Jordan’s voice trailed off into a question.

“I need my phone.” There’s a moment that passed as Jordan wondered if Andrew would have his head for giving the potentially-concussed man a phone, but decided a mother should get to hear from her son that he was okay. Or okay-ish, as the case seems to be.

“Here, tell me what to do and I’ll dial,” Jordan said, feeling pretty pleased with himself for coming up with such a good compromise, “Andrew said the light isn’t good for you right now.”

Emre sighed, and reminded himself how kind Jordan is to look after him. _He’s doing this out of the goodness of his heart,_ he reminded himself. _It’s not fair to get annoyed with him._ And that, and that alone, is why he talked Jordan through his phone, gave him his password, and waited to be handed the phone.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They arrive at Jordan's house. Emre meets Jordan's little girls, who think Uncle Emre is the most fun thing that's happened in ages. They eat dinner and Jordan learns a bit more about Emre's family.

“It’s ringing,” Jordan muttered as he passed it to Emre.

“ _Guten tag_ , Mama.” _“Hi, Mama.”_

“ _Da, da_ , Mir geht es gut.” _“yes, yes, I am fine.”_

“Der arzt wird morgen zu überprüfen.” _“The doctor is going to check tomorrow.”_

“Nein, ich bin nicht allein. Ich bin im Hendo Haus bleiben.” _“No, I’m not alone, Mama. I’m staying at Hendo’s house.”_

“Hendo, Mama, der Kapitän, Jordan Henderson.” _“Hendo, Mama, the captain, Jordan Henderson.”_

“Da, da, er ist ein guter Mann..” _“yes, he is a good man._ ”

“Sagen sie Papa und Nicole, da? Danke, Mama. Da, ich liebe dich auch. Gute nacht!” _“Tell Papa and Nicola, okay? Thanks, Mama. Love you too. Good night!”_

Jordan eavesdropped on the conversation. He figured it can’t hurt that much, as it was in fact being held in German. He made out a few words here and there: his nickname, his full name, and captain. He hoped he wouldn’t end up getting an angry phone call from a middle-aged German woman tomorrow for failing her son.

“Alright?”

“Yeah, she just worries, you know. And I’m so far now, it’s hard for her.”

Jordan hummed, and there was a spot of not-uncomfortable silence, which is broken by the return of Becca and the girls.

She came in, flashed a smile at Emre and pecked Jordan on the cheek.

“Pasta with fish is okay, Emre?”

“Sounds great, thank you.” Becca smiled again, and told him to help himself. He does, followed by Jordan. He watched Becca trying to wrangle two small children into eating dangerously-messy looking food without making the dining room look like a crime scene or some sort of weird modern art. Jordan tried to help, focusing on his elder girl, pleading and beguiling, cajoling and nearly outright-begging at one point. Emre finally took pity, and leaned in to talk to her. 

“Hey sweetie, can you just try to eat a few more bites of pasta? For Uncle Emre? “ She looked up at him, interested, but trying not to cede too much ground. Luckily, his nieces had also worked on his negotiation tactics, and he knew he could handle this.

“Princess, if you do a good job finishing your dinner, I promise-“ He broke off, looked around to meet Jordan’s eyes, and leaned in near to Alexa’s ear, whispering quietly. Her eyes lit up, and she looked at him, as though checking to make sure he was trustworthy. Apparently he measured up, because she finished the food, and Jordan was finally looking at Emre with something other than pity in his eyes, so everyone won, really.

“What did you tell her?”

“I told her you’d read as many books to her as she wanted before bed, and that you and I would act out one of them.”

“How are you so good at dealing with kids?” Jordan asked in amazement.

“If you must know, my sister has little girls and Uncle Emre is their hero, so I do my best to live up to it.”

“They must miss you,” Jordan said quietly, after a moment had passed.

“And I them. It is okay. They are coming for the lap of honor. If they meet your girls, I am afraid we’ll all be doomed.”

After dinner, Emre excused himself to get settled in the guest room he’ll be spending the night in. As he came back, Jordan was watching the end of the match. Becca was beside him on the couch. Both of them were watching intently, too intently, and Emre didn’t really understand why, until he saw himself on screen, catching an elbow in the face and going down in agony.

Little Alexa chooses this moment to look up from her blocks, and saw Uncle Emre getting clobbered. She turned to Jordan, and asks if that man is getting into trouble for hitting Uncle Emre.

Jordan looked utterly lost. How could he explain this without making it seem like the moral of the story is ‘don’t get caught and you won’t get in trouble?’

Emre spares him the effort by choosing that particular moment to walk in.

He sits on the floor near Alexa, and she comes over and plops herself into his lap. She had been a little shaken to see him go down like that, and wanted to make sure he was okay now.

“Why didn’t that man get in trouble, Uncle Emre? He hit you! If I hit the baby, I would be in _biiig_ trouble!”

“Well, just after he hit me, the whistle blew, you see, love. And the referee, he’s only in charge during the match. And when the whistle blows the match ends, and he can’t punish people anymore.”

“Why not?”

“Well, look at it this way: if you hit your sister at home, can your teacher still punish you?”

“No, because she doesn’t know!”

“Exactly. She doesn’t know—maybe it was an accident, right? When you’re at home, Mummy and Daddy are in charge, not your teacher.”

“Miss Thomas.”

“Yes, Miss Thomas. And when someone in your class hits someone else, Miss Thomas is in charge, not their parents, right?”

“Yeah, but she can call your mummy and daddy if you’re being mean!”

“Of course, love, but only if she sees the problem and decides to call them, right? So what happened to me was that man hit me, the referee, who’s like Miss Thomas on the pitch, didn’t see it and didn’t call his parents to explain that he was being bad.”

“But that’s not fair!!”

“No, darling, it’s not, but it does happen sometimes anyway.”

She looked at him solemnly, then wrapped her small thin arms around his neck and squeezed hard. He laughed, and hugged her back, gently.

Becca was looking at him with a wet softness in her eyes as she told Lexa it was time to go to bed, and picked up the baby.

Emre turned and saw the TV again, wincing at the bright light of it. Jordan grimaced and turned it off, irritated at his own absentmindedness.

“Sorry, lad.” 

“S’alright.”

 They talk about the game for a bit, before Jordan reverted to Emre’s family. He hadn’t known much about them before today and now he was endlessly curious.

 “How old are your nieces now?”

 “Three and five,” and Emre couldn’t stop the wistful smile from growing on his face.

 There was a moment of silence as Jordan searched frantically for a suitable response. Maybe Emre won’t remember this later, he thought to himself, instantly hating himself for the thought.

 The silence settled until it would be awkward to try to pick up the same thread of conversation.

 “You must be tired, eh, lad?” Jordan asked, finally. “You’re gonna need all the rest you can get. We both will, actually. I’ve got to wake you every hour and make sure you’re still kicking.”

 Emre looked horrified. “Every hour? Jordan, you didn’t have to do that. I could have stayed with a friend or something!”

 “Oh, are we not friends then, Emre? How you wound your poor old captain’s heart! I’m not cool enough to be friends with cool young Emre Can, is that it?”

 “Oh, piss off, Jordan, you know that’s not what I meant. I just—you didn’t have to go to all this trouble, is all.”

 “What trouble? You’re one of my lads, aren’t you? I’m your captain, innit? Have to take care of you lot. Same way Stevie took care of us when he was here, bless him. Ask Ads or Skrts or Milly, they’d tell you the same. Hell, even Lucas and Mama would agree. Someone musta told ya when you got in that Liverpool is a family, right?” There was a slight pause as Jordan waited for Emre’s nod.

 “But they say that everywhere, it’s just, well, honestly it’s just bullshit propaganda, no offense Hendo—“

 “Yeah, well, we meant it. You’re ours now, and we’ll take care o’ ya like you’re our own. ‘S no trouble at all, mate. Now, we’d better get up to bed, we’ll be up again soon enough.” Emre nodded again, and Jordan was reminded of himself when he’d been listening to Andrew, unable to get a word in edgewise, and he smiled slightly to himself.

 They go to bed at 10:15. Jordan explained to Becca that he’ll have to wake every hour, and she laughed and told him he can look after the baby then. He asked if he should spend the night in a guest room, and she laughed again, saying “Babe, nothing you could do could wake me at this point. I’m the mother of an infant, remember?”

 He decided to set an timer for an hour and fifteen minutes, reasoning he’d give Emre a bit of time to actually fall asleep. He set the phone under his pillow, partially to muffle the sound of it, and partially so he could feel the vibrations and make sure he woke.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a long night, but nobody said captaincy was going to be easy.

_11:30pm_

Jordan rolls out of bed. He walks past the girls’ room, looks in on them, finding them both asleep, and crosses over to the guest room. He knocks perfunctorily, hesitates just a second. Then he shrugs and goes in. This is his teammate, after all. He’s seen the man naked, happy, depressed, and yeah, probably sleeping too, if he cares to try and remember. Besides, he’s got a head injury—he’s probably not going to wake at a quiet knock at the door anyway.

He goes in, ponders whether to turn the light on, and decides against it. He kneels next to the bed, and presses a hand on Emre’s shoulder, calling his name quietly. 

“Emre? Emreee? Come on lad, I know it’s hard, got to wake up though. Andrew said I need to check on you, remember? Do you want him to kill me just so you can sleep? Or should I ask if you want him to go to jail for killing me? Him! A doctor! It’ll be in all the papers…” And now it’s just pathetic rambling, really, but he keeps going, voice low and rumbling and soothing. He does feel oddly like a parent, considering that Emre’s only a few years younger than him, if that. Maybe an older brother, then, he figures.

Emre blinks up at him sleepily.

“ _Guten tag_ , Hendo,” he says sleepily, “what’re you doing in my house?”

“You’re at mine, remember? You took Fellaini’s elbow in the face yesterday, so Andrew sent you home with me to make sure you were alright. You gotta answer a few questions before you can go back to bed, alright?”

Emre nods, rubbing blearily at his eyes as he props himself up on his elbows.

“Right. What year is it?”  
“2016”  
“What team do you play for?”  
“Liverpool”  
“Who did we play yesterday?”  
“United”  
“Be more specific.”  
“Manchester United. Come off it, you knew what I meant.”  
“Who won?”  
“We did.”  
“Scoreline?”  
“2-0.”  
“Who scored the goals?”  
“There was a penalty, Clyney went down, Studge put it away. Bobby scored the other one.”  
“Was it Premier League or a competition?”  
“Europa League, first leg, round of 16.”

“Okay, okay, that’ll do, showoff. You can go back to sleep, I’ll wake you again in an hour, alright?”

“Mmkay. Thanks for letting me stay at your place and taking care of me, cap’n.”

Jordan smiled and on a whim, reached out to brush his hand through the younger man’s hair, soft and gel-free for once, before slipping back out to his room.

_2:30am_

Jordan was really bloody tired. He went and sat on the side of the bed while he roused Emre and asked the questions again. Kneeling every time got old right quick, he found. Emre, bless him, answered quickly and correctly yet again, easing that little niggle of worry in the back of Jordan’s head. 

He was so tired. Going back to his room felt impossible and pointless given he’d be back here in an hour. He pulled his legs up onto the unoccupied side of the bed, and fell asleep on top of the covers.

_6:00am_

Becca woke to an empty bed. Curious, she rose to check on Emre herself—he reminded her much of her own brother. On the way, she heard the quiet hitching of breath that signaled that an infant meltdown was approaching, though not yet inevitable. She rushed in to calm baby Alba. She changed her diaper, and sighed in relief. Crisis averted. She turned to go back to bed before remembering why she’d left in the first place. The door to the guest room was wide open, and Emre Can lay sleeping on one side of the bed, under the covers.

On the other side, sprawled on top of the covers and clutching his phone in his hand, was her boyfriend.

She smiled and snuck back to the master bedroom, picked up her phone, and crept back to the room where the exhausted footballers were sleeping.

She took a sneaky photo of the two of them, making sure she’d saved it, and made a mental note to send it to Adam Lallana’s wife in the morning. That would be the best way to make sure the entire squad would hear by noon tomorrow at the latest. She giggled quietly, hushing instantly as she watched the father of her children shift in his sleep, and went back to bed.

_7:30_

Jordan woke Emre again. He asked questions and Emre answered them. Jordan mentally blessed the boy for not complaining, because he didn’t honestly think he could take it at this point.

“D’ya wanna sleep more, or are you up for good now?” Jordan asked, stifling a yawn.

“I’ll stay up, mate.” Emre looked at his captain’s weary face once more before adding, “You can go off and have a few more hours, though.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. You look…” There was a pause as Emre scrunched up his face in search of the right word. “Absolutely knackered.” He finished with a proud smile.

“I am. There’s food in the kitchen if you’re hungry, help yourself.”

Jordan got up to leave, but turned back in the doorway.

“Best keep away from the TV and your phone until we get Andrew’s okay though, yeah?”

Emre sighed and agreed to do so. 

There was very little to do that didn’t involve reading or watching some sort of screen, Emre found. So he sat himself down in front of the girls’ blocks, and offered up a short mental prayer that everyone would stay asleep for awhile yet and that no one would actually see him doing this. Then he started building the most epic castle the world had ever seen. 

Becca woke around 8 to find Jordan at her side in bed, and stood to check on the girls and Emre. The baby was sleeping, but Alexa was awake and out of bed, and the guest bed was neatly made up. Suddenly, she heard quiet sounds coming from the living room. She wasn’t fluent in German, but she was fairly confident the word she’d heard was a profanity of some kind. She walked quickly to the living room, stopping short when she saw Emre pouting up at her daughter, who stood over the ruins of what had once been a castle made of blocks, looking completely unrepentant.

“Playing with blocks, Emre?” She asked with a raised eyebrow.

Emre had not known that he could blush quite so hard, but there it was. Becca picked up her little girl and turned towards the kitchen, barely making out the muttered excuse of _there was nothing else to do_.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Breakfast in the Henderson household and a trip to Melwood to follow up with the doctor.

Jordan woke a few hours later, marginally more rested. He was slightly disoriented, being the last person in the house to wake. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes, got dressed, and wandered down to the kitchen, yawning.

“Morning, Becks.” He murmured, pressing a kiss to his lady’s hair as he moved to pick up the coffee that was prettily waiting for him on the counter.

Becca coughed pointedly.

“Good morning, Jordan,” she said, voice a little too loud. It was just enough to remind Hendo that he had company, and so he looked up and nodded at Emre, who very politely nodded back rather than making any mention of what he’d just seen. Yes, they were teammates, and yes, they saw each other in all states, but sleepy-affectionate-family man was not usually one of them.

“Staying for breakfast, then, lad?”

“Yes, I thought… Uh, you drove me here. I mean, I could call a taxi if you want. I’m sure you’re tired, long day yesterday and long night last night,” and calm, cool, collected Emre Can was suddenly none of those things. He was just a young man afraid of being a burden.

Jordan cut him off with a raised hand.

“None of that now, lad, I was only joking,” he remarked mildly, “of course I’ll drive you back to Melwood today. We’ll go in together and I’ll wait for your results, all right? Then we can see if you’re alright to drive home or if I should drop you off.”

Emre smiled, then looked down at the little girl pulling insistently on his pant leg.

“That is, if the girls let you leave. They might decide Uncle Emre has to move in permanently. Isn’t that right, Lexa?”

His little girl nodded so vigorously that for a moment Jordan feared she’d injure her slender little neck.

Emre, having already eaten, graciously took the girls into the living room so Jordan and Becca could have breakfast in relative peace. Becca sighed blissfully at the luxury of it—a quiet breakfast was quite the rarity for the mother of two children under five, after all.

They finished eating in a comfortable silence, then Jordan and Emre left. Or tried to. It ended up taking a solid ten minutes of cajoling a wailing three-year-old (whereupon, hearing her sister’s distress, the baby began screaming, out of solidarity alone) with promises of cartoons, Frozen, games, and more visits from Uncle Emre _in the very near future, sweetheart_ , before she finally released Emre’s leg.

Emre himself looked guilty and heartbroken, and if little Lexa had asked for the moon at that moment, Emre would have built himself a ladder to go fetch it for her. He hugged her close and promised to see her again, promised to bring his little nieces and walk with them all around the pitch at Anfield.

“You can walk with me and Daddy and Uncle Adam and Arthur and Uncle James too!”

“Uncle Adam and Uncle James?” Lexa had asked curiously, a brief reprieve from distress.

“Uncle Llama and Uncle Milly,” Jordan corrected hastily, ignoring Emre’s amused look.

They got to Melwood, parked the car, and walking in together, a strange reversal of the way they’d left yesterday evening. Jordan dropped Emre off in front of the doctor’s door, and went to wander around while he waited.

He ran into Lucas, who was waving goodbye to a cheery Alberto Moreno. Alberto saw Jordan and threw himself at him in an enthusiastic hug, which did nothing to dissuade Jordan from the secret belief that Alberto’s subconscious was just a puppy running around in circles chasing its own tail. Still, he hugged the boy back, and bid him farewell.

 Lucas waited until Alberto was out of earshot, then turned to Jordan, his easy smile shifting like sand on the beach to form a serious expression.

“Emre?”

Jordan nodded.

“He stayed with you last night, didn’t he?” Lucas asked. Jordan wasn’t sure how Lucas knew, but it wasn’t unusual. Lucas _always_ knew, somehow. If Jordan didn’t know the man so well, he’d suspect the man had Melwood and Anfield bugged. But that was ridiculous, of course. (or was it?)

Jordan nodded again.

“And how was he? Did he seem okay?”

“I think so. I woke him up every hour just like the doctor said, and he was a little disoriented at first, but he answered all the questions really well, so that was good.”

Lucas smiled in relief.

“Then again, Becca said he was playing with blocks this morning, so maybe the head injury was worse than we thought.”

Lucas frowned, and Jordan learned that there was indeed an expression that didn’t sit right on that handsome face.

“No, no, I think he’ll be alright,” Jordan said, backtracking quickly.

_Might be time to change the subject a bit._

“The girls loved him though. Lexa almost didn’t let him leave.”

Lucas smiled fondly at that, and Jordan sighed internally. Perhaps he wasn’t in the middle of the apocalypse after all.

“Pedro was asking about her,  you know.”

“Lexa?”

“Yes, and the baby, too. He likes playing big brother, especially when he doesn’t have to do it all the time.”

And so, moving on to more pleasant topics, Jordan and Lucas lounged in front of the telly, waiting for Emre to emerge from the doctor’s office. They could hear the soft clip of a table tennis ball bouncing between the table and the players’ paddles, a reassuring rhythm that was interrupted by a muttered curse whenever someone lost a point.

Emre emerged a little later, smiling at Lucas and Hendo.

Lucas spoke before Jordan or Emre had a chance.

“You’re okay?” he asked, after taking a single look at Emre’s face. Lucas was hands-down one of the smartest people Jordan had ever met, at least as far as interpersonal intelligence was concerned. He could read people’s faces, their voices, and he somehow _always_ knew what to say. He’d be a good spy, Jordan reckoned. _Maybe they’d taken the wrong lads for that James Bond escape room test._

“Perfectly healthy! Doctor gave me the all-clear. I dunno what happened yesterday—I guess it was just a migraine or something, though I haven’t had one in years.”

“Glad to hear it, mate,” Jordan said, putting out a hand to shake. Normally the German was a little less physically affectionate than the rest of the team, so he was surprised, but pleased when Emre went in for the hug. He turned and hugged Lucas too, who for a moment looked as bewildered as Jordan had been, but recovered quickly.

“Yes, we need you on the pitch, lad,” Lucas said, adding the last word with a grin, just to make Emre smile. Hearing the Brazilian speak was a source of unceasing amusement for the boys—the Brazilian-tinted Scouse accent was just too perfect, especially when Lucas used Scouse or English slang. Lucas, bless him, was often obligingly extra-Scouse for the lads.

Jordan’s leg was vibrating. Or rather, his phone was vibrating against his leg. He pulled it out of his pocket, and was completely unsurprised to see James Milner’s name emblazoned on the screen.

“Hullo, Milly.”

“Yeah, he’s here.”

“No, totally fine.”

“Sure, you can speak to him.”

“Yeah, no problem. Bye from me then.” Jordan said, handing the phone off to Emre with a shrug and an unnecessary “It’s Milly.”

“He’s such a mother hen,” Jordan muttered to Lucas.

“Well, Joe would know better than us,” Lucas whispered back.

Jordan choked on his own saliva and spent the next two minutes gasping for air, alternately laughing and coughing, while Lucas patted his back.

Emre, who had just about convinced his vice-captain that he was in fact alright, quirked a rather judgmental eyebrow at Jordan, still dying in front of him.

“Right, go home, you.” Jordan said, shooing Emre away.

Emre turned to go, when Jordan suddenly realized something. 

“Can, is that my shirt?” he shouted at Emre’s retreating back.

“Becca gave it to me to wear. I couldn’t just wear the same thing as yesterday!” Emre seemed quite earnest, as if he couldn’t even fathom the idea of wearing the same t-shirt two days in a row, so Jordan let him off.

Lucas had his back though, as he had since the first day he’d arrived at Melwood.

“Wearing the captain’s clothes won’t make you his favorite, you know!” he called out.

 Emre just turned and blew them a kiss, waving as he walked out.

 Jordan ambled casually to the window, watching Emre walk to his car, back out, and leave the parking lot, all the while trying to look like he wasn’t watching at all.

 He sensed Lucas at his right shoulder, even before a warm hand landed on it.

 “He’s okay, Jordan.”

“I know.” Jordan said, defensively.

“I know you know,” Lucas said lightly. There was a brief silence.

“Did you also know that you’re a really good captain?”

Jordan didn’t say anything.

“And I would know. I’ve had my share of good captains, Jordan.” The hand on his shoulder turned him gently away from the window and pulled him in for a quick hug.

After he got back home, he send Emre a quick text: _Lexa wants to know when she’ll see Uncle Emre again._

A response came almost immediately.

_Tell her to come to our next match. I’ll need my little good luck charm._

Jordan smiled.


End file.
